The years have stolen more than they ever gave:

Loyalty, vigor, and the youth I thought would never fade.

What burned bright now smolders,

A distant call in a house of ash.

I sit with ghosts who wear familiar faces,

Their laughter lingers in corners I no longer visit.

We replay old choices like worn-out film,

Scenes I can’t rewrite, though I whisper to the screen.

Time, the thief with gentle hands,

Took the edge from my stride, the steel from my spine,

Left behind a hollow echo,

A shell that remembers how it felt to run.

Am I truly living, or merely passing through?

A shadow trailing the promise of something more.

A life half-spoken, dreams left waiting

In rooms I never dared to open.

Now the silence speaks in riddles,

And I answer with a tired smile,

Knowing too well the weight of moments lost.

The quiet cost of getting older.